No Room In Hell
by ArixaBell
Summary: Zombies are overtaking the world. When enough citizens become the flesh-hungry undead, so too does their nation. The remaining nations have taken protecting their land from the zombies into their own hands. USUK
1. Chapter 1

_Zombies are overtaking the world. When enough citizens become the flesh-hungry undead, so too does their nation. The remaining nations have taken protecting their land from the zombies into their own hands._

_Pff. Why do I keep writing random first chapters when I have other stuff I'm working on?_

_I've been toying with the idea of writing a zombie story for a while (I've loved zombies since my uncle first inflicted Return of the Living Dead on me when I was 10. XD He was a good influence, eh?). A bloody fantastic zombie comic by the uber-talented USUK fancomic artist Otoshigo helped the desire grow, though this story isn't related to hers._

_So. USUK's the main pairing. That's all I know for sure at the moment. Maybe Russia/Canada? Maybe maybe other pairing variations between those four? Don't know yet. We'll see._

_Title is from Dawn of the Dead's tagling. "When there's no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth." Despite the fact that, y'know, this story is about virus-zombies instead of randomly-risen-from-the-grave-zombies. But whatever. I like that quote!_

_Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine._

* * *

England grimaced and reached for the roll of bandages. "Bloody hell, you've got another one."

"Huh?" America looked up from stuffing food into his mouth—canned beans were a far cry from burgers, but they had to make do in this day and age—to give England a perplexed look. "Another what?"

England pointed to the small patch of rotten skin on America's bicep. "What does that make it, three?"

"Oh..." America pursed his lips as he gazed down at his arm. "Yeah."

America had a vast population. England shuddered to think of how many people had to be overcome by this horrid plague to cause symptoms in the nation. The poor small nations had turned quickly...

England dabbed a bit of antibiotic onto the new wound, as if that would do any good, then wrapped some bandages around it. There was a similar spot on his calf. And part of his cheek had rotted clean away, revealing the gleaming teeth and jaw beneath. England had yet to develop such horrid wounds, himself. The island nations had reacted quickly after the outbreak and thankfully remained mostly untouched. As had the northern nations, for the creatures had revealed a preference for warmer weather. Even Russia was mostly okay, despite being the epicenter of the plague. Canada hadn't been so lucky: the zombies didn't seem to want to stick around in his country, but his population was small enough that it hadn't taken much death for one of his eyes to rot out of its socket. They had had to sedate him (with liquor, and plenty of it) to sever the dangling eye from the nerves still connecting it.

"First aid doesn't do anything," America murmured. "It won't get better." It wouldn't get worse, either. Only the continued zombiefication of their people worsened their wounds. Infection and the like didn't.

"I know." But England continued to treat him, anyway. It made him feel better.

America just shrugged. "They should be back by now."

"It hasn't been that long." Russia and Canada could take care of themselves.

It had taken a while just to convince America to let them help him in his cross-country zombie hunt. Even after agreeing, he continued to suggest they return home to care for their own countries. But of the four of them, only the US seemed to be in any current danger from the ever-growing hordes of creatures, so they ignored his worries.

At least the human and animal zombies could be somewhat easily killed. Damage the brain, and they stopped moving for good. But a nation who had died and reawakened as a walking corpse hungry for flesh was truly immortal. Much harder to deal with. Most of them—the majority of countries in Africa, Asia, and Europe that were south enough—were still wandering mindlessly around in their own lands. Only a few had been dealt with sufficiently. Greece had been burned to ash, the Italies had been chopped into tiny bits (which had continued to twitch and move around), and Vietnam had been sunk into the Pacific.

"I hope they didn't get bitten," America said as England set the first aid kit aside.

"Me, too." The nations had yet to actually _contract_ the virus. They had only become zombies when the majority of their population had succumbed. If the virus itself had an affect on them remained a mystery. But now that they were getting out there, in the middle of things, killing zombies... it was only a matter of time before they found out.

"We're back," a nearby voice called. "Oh, I smell food."

"There you are." America smiled wearily. "I was getting worried."

Russia tossed aside his variety of weapons with a smile of his own. None of his wounds were visible, hidden beneath his usual bulky clothes. And none of them were bad, just a few coin-sized bits of rotten flesh. "We're fine. No problems."

Canada set aside his own guns and knives. "Right. Piece of cake." When America had started neglecting hair cuts, the twins had become even harder to tell apart. Now that Canada sported a patch beneath his glasses, nobody would make that mistake again... probably.

"What happened?" Russia asked, nodding toward the new bandages.

"Ah... another one." America tried to look indifferent, but worry filled his eyes. "It's not very big. England insisted on wrapping it up."

"Not surprising." Russia sat at the table with a sigh. "There seems to be more of them, I'm surprised you aren't worse."

"Well we had better get out there!" America stood, his old enthusiasm returning, and he gave a thumb's up. "You two eat. England and I have work to do!" He beamed, and England couldn't help but smile. Now _there_ was the enthusiastic hunter, who had once used a pair of zombies as _weapons_ against others, laughing all the while.

"Maybe brush your teeth before you go out," Canada said, barely keeping a straight face.

America clapped a hand over the gaping hole in his cheek. "Shut up, three eyes!"

"Boys..." England said, retrieving some of the weapons Russia and Canada had set aside and strapping them on.

"Hey, don't hog the goods." America hurried closer to help himself to his favorite tools of zombie death.

"Have fun," Russia said cheerfully, dishing up a bowl of beans.

"You know it." America strode out the door, England hurrying to catch up. They avoided the traps and alarms they always set up around their temporary homes, and ventured out into the mostly abandoned city.

It wasn't long at all before they heard the distant sound of an inhuman groan.

"I guess they missed one," America said, gripping his gun.

England nodded. "Let's put the poor bastard out of its misery."

* * *

_So hm. Heck, this could even work as a one-shot, I suppose. lol But I'll probably continue it._

_Too bad England's not, like, a religious figure or something, or I would totally find a way for him to quote Dead Alive. "I kick arse for the Lord!" Heh heh heh..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine._

* * *

America took aim at the rotten figure that shambled closer. Clothing and skin alike hung from it in tatters, like macabre streamers. The ivory shine of bone poked through here and there, and blood stained its decaying teeth from a recent meal. With a grim smile, America pulled the trigger, and the creature went down with one final moan. It twitched briefly, then lay still as its damaged brain finally let it rest.

He didn't think of the thing as one of his citizens, like he used to years ago. It had once been an American, but that American had long since died. He was just helping it along.

England stared down at the corpse. "That was a little close, don't you think?"

America casually rested the barrel of the gun against his shoulder. "I know what I'm doing. It wasn't going to bite me."

"We're the best at shooting things in the head _in the world_. You didn't have to let it get so close."

"You worry too much."

"When it comes to diseased zombies biting you, I'm allowed to worry!"

America just laughed. It was a familiar conversation. He grinned at England, who stared back intently, eyes narrowing. America didn't even flinch when England raised his own gun, and the barrel was aimed directly at the taller nation.

America didn't worry. He just ducked, and England fired. A groan and a thud came from behind him. "Thanks!" America straightened, glancing over his shoulder at the other downed creature. Quiet thing.

"I hate it when they're quiet." England made a face. "It goes against nature."

"I know, right?" America tugged a small notebook out of his back pocket.

England watched him with a snort. "Why must you do that?"

"It's interesting." He jotted a few notes and tallies. "One for me, one for you."

"What's the total?"

America flipped through the daily tally. He had many more filled notebooks tucked away in his bag at the house. "No idea." He chuckled. "I should total them up one of these days. That might take forever, though."

England's answer was a noncommittal grunt. "Well, we've finished scoping the perimeter. Shall we head back? I'm exhausted."

"Sounds good to me." America glanced back in the direction of the house they had claimed for the past few days. It had been a good temporary home. "Then we should move on."

"Right." England tucked his weapon away, then stepped closer to America to pull him into a hug.

America melted into the embrace. Even such a simple act of intimacy had become scarce in their busy, stressful new occupation. They remained that way for a few more moments before reluctantly breaking apart. They shared sad smiles, then turned back toward home.

* * *

It had started in Russia, a fact which would haunt the nation for the rest of his life, however long that may be. He had been completely unaware that a certain lab was experimenting with biological warfare. Virus warfare. And as always happened in the movies, the virus got out. It infected every scientist who worked there.

They all died.

And they did not stay down. Their corpses rose with a single mission: to feed. And what they craved, just like the zombies in fiction, was living human flesh. Nobody knew why.

The virus lived in bodily fluids. Should it get into the blood (or other fluid) of a healthy person, they were doomed. They had a day to live, at the most. The most common form of infection came from zombie bites, if the skin was broken. Sadly, a lot of people did not know that. There were many, _many_ cases of suicide of perfectly healthy people who had been bitten, but not hard enough for the saliva to get into their blood.

The infection had spread rapidly throughout the country. But it did not stay long. The zombies kept wandering south. It wasn't until it had spread to more countries that it was realized that the cold was what drove them away. The countries south of Russia had no such luck with zombie migration. It was the same in Europe, when the virus arrived there. Denmark was the only Nordic nation to fall; those to the north were left untouched.

But everyone else was doomed. The nations fell, one after another, succumbing as if to the same virus, even though they were never actually infected. Their bodies rotted while they still lived as more of their people succumbed. And once enough of the population had turned, they died and turned, themselves. The entire landmass that wasn't too cold was doomed. Only the islands survived. The UK, Japan, the Philippines, Madagascar, Australia, and so on... they had succeeded in preventing infection from reaching their shores.

They had assumed that would be the same for the other landmass they shared the world with. The Americas seemed to be fairing well, even as Europe and Asia and Africa succumbed. But it didn't last, and the zombies started showing up there, as well. And after watching their friends and loved ones on the other side of the planet fall, the nations in North, Central, and South America were determined that it would not happen to them.

* * *

"How much longer, do you think?" Russia said, staring out the window at the deceptively peaceful moonlit night.

"Until they get back?" Canada idly doodled on a scrap of paper. "I don't know. Ten minutes, few hours..."

Russia shook his head, not turning from the window, hands clasped behind his back. "Until the U.S. falls and we have to move on."

"Oh." Canada tossed his pencil. Russia didn't flinch when it struck the back of his head. "Stop that."

"Do you really think we'll completely eliminate all of them?"

"No... but as long as we keep-"

"You said 'no'. That means you know we can never eliminate them. Which means they will keep coming, forever, and some day we will all be one of them."

Canada shivered. So he had gone from "One with Russia!" to "One with zombies..." already. Well, not 'already'. He could see how anybody would lose hope after several years, even if his own country seemed to be improving. "We might just do it, you know. We might eliminate the virus entirely from this country. And _then_ we'll move on. Help Australia with Mexico, maybe."

"Anything's possible," Russia said, voice soft. "Ah, here they come."

"That was fast." Canada couldn't help but grin.

"Indeed. I hope they aren't getting sloppy."

"You're so morbid tonight." Canada looked around for something else to fling at him, and settled for stepping closer and flicking Russia's nose. "They're just good at killing things quickly."

Russia nodded. "Years of sitting on his ass playing video games seemed to have helped his hand-eye coordination..."

"I heard that!" America stopped, hands on hips. "If you're going to talk about me, close the window all the way."

"Any luck?" Canada said.

"One for each of us!"

"Start gathering everything up," England said. "It's time to move on."

"Right." Canada picked up his pencil, then turned toward their scattered supplies, pulling a bag close. "This was a nice place. But I suppose the next place will be nice, too."

"Shh," Russia said.

"What?"

"Shh."

"All I hear is Amer—oh!" Canada heard the familiar sound of tortured groaning, from the direction opposite the returning pair. "Ah well. More work tonight." He picked up one of the weapons he had started to pack away, waiting for America and England. They had most of the weapons, after all.

Of the four of them, Canada was probably the least accurate marksman. But it wasn't _his_ fault he lacked the depth perception they had. And he was still damn good, if he did say so himself.

"More?" America said as he walked in, noting his brother and friend re-arming themselves rather than packing.

Canada jerked his head in the direction of the noise. "Sounds like a lot, eh?"

America sighed. "Where were those assholes hiding?"

"Let's get out there and take care of them before they make it this far." England made a face. "I have no desire to recreate Night of the Living Dead in this house."

Canada looked down at the guns in their hands, hoping they had enough ammo. It _did_ sound like a lot of them... Where _had_ they been hiding? Well, whatever. They had plowed through undead armies before, they could do it again...


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine._

* * *

England lashed out with a grunt, kicking away a zombie that had stumbled too close. It fell away with a groan, and he put a bullet in the poor bastard's head. Another one beside him went down, and England didn't bother to look and see who had shot it.

"Russia!" he snapped, noticing a form creeping closer to the other nation. "Behind you." Assured that Russia had things under control, England fired another round into the creatures that lurched ever closer, relentless. His nose was assaulted with the rank smell of death and decay. The zombies ranged from pale and bloated recently deceased, to strips of flesh barely clinging to old bones. England focused solely on his task, ignoring the grunts and sounds of alarm his companions made, listening only for indications of distress that would require assistance.

England's limbs were growing heavy as he took aim at yet another of the endless zombies, this one clad in the tatters of a nice suit. There would have been no time to prepare it for burial before it rose; it must have died at some special event. England sent it flying back with a bullet between the eyes. He kicked out again, catching another of them in the sternum and sending it tumbling back.

Another that approached England in its relentless pursuit of food couldn't have been much more than five when it died, filthy shreds of teddy bear pajamas still clinging to its decayed body. England hesitated only an instant before firing once, twice... except the second time he only got an empty click. He swallowed thickly, gulping in a breath of air as he dropped the gun and reached for his knife. And then he was among them, driving the blade into eyes, into brains. He ducked and weaved, avoiding their reaching arms. A yelp of alarm escaped when he felt hands grasping at the back of his shirt, but they fell away when another shot rang out. At least not everybody had run out of ammo.

No good. England was wearing out quickly. He spun away from a maggoty ghoul and drove the knife into the back of its head, wincing when the zombie fell over before he was able to retrieve it. He felt his clothes for another weapon, panic rising amidst the exhaustion.

When nothing reached out for him, England paused, giving a cautious scan of the area.

Nothing. All of the zombies lay sprawled on the ground around them, unmoving. Chest heaving, England was tempted to just plop onto the ground with them and catch his breath. It had been a while since they had had to take out so many at once; he was about ready to drop.

"Let's go back," Canada said, looking and sounding just as worn out, sweat dripping down his face, body stooping. "I don't hear any more."

America just nodded in agreement, wiping damp hair out of his face. Even he must have been exhausted, enough to make him unusually quiet. The weary quartet trooped back to the house without a backward glance at the pile of corpses, eager to get some relaxation and sleep in before they were on the move again. England mused that they could probably stand a good rinse off, too, as covered in blood and gore as they were. But that just didn't sound good to him at the moment, and England dropped onto the couch. He didn't care what mess he got on it. Starting tomorrow, nobody would be living in that house again.

Canada and Russia also found spots to relax, while America remained standing, staring off into space.

"Come here, love," England said, hoping America wasn't feeling down again. They all went through more mood swings than a pregnant woman, feeling enthusiasm for killing the dead bastards and being happy to still be alive one minute, to despair and wondering what the point of living was the next. It struck England the hardest when it was his bright and cheerful lover who was going through a spell of depression.

America shook his head. "I have to tell you guys something."

England furrowed his brows. "What is it?"

"Oh, not this again," Canada sighed. "You want to go on without us when you leave, is that it?"

"No..." America hesitated, then wordlessly rolled his pantleg up.

England's breath caught in his throat, his heart stopped. He could tell Canada and Russia were having similar reactions. _No..._ he thought numbly. _This isn't possible. It's not happening._

The wound on America's calf was very different from the others. It wasn't a new rotting patch; it was a gaping, bleeding hole torn into the flesh. A bite.

America had been bitten.

"No..." Canada gasped, color draining from his face. "No!"

"What does this mean?" Russia asked, just as pale. "Will you...?"

"I don't know." America rolled his pantleg back down, covering the dreadful wound. "It's never happened before."

England supposed he shouldn't be surprised that America would be the first nation to get bitten. "It's..." He swallowed. "It's not a guarantee that anything will happen." His voice had gone unusually high. "When has any virus ever had an effect on us? I say he's going to be fine." Did he really believe that?

"What do we do?" Canada said, voice a pained whisper.

America slowly looked at each of them with wide eyes. "There's only one thing we can do. You should-"

"NO!" England jerked to his feet so quickly he nearly tipped the couch over. "No, never! You bloody bastard, we are not going to try and kill you when we don't even-"

"England!" America had to yell to be heard over the ranting. "Shut up!"

England's jaw snapped closed. He gave America a pleading, despairing look. "But..."

"Who said anything about killing? Geez." America shook his head, and the git was actually smiling. "No, I was going to say that you should tie me up, and leave me that way until we know for sure one way or another."

"Oh..." England sagged back onto the couch.

"It takes humans no more than 24 hours from initial bite to death," America continued now that England was somewhat pacified. "If I last that long without even a symptom, you should be safe to untie me."

Russia tilted his head. "There is no rope or chain that can hold you."

"I know. But I won't be able to break free in an instant, it will give you time to get away. If you hear me trying to escape, get the hell out and burn this place down." He dropped onto a chair and waited expectantly.

England backed away, not wanting to help as Russia and Canada fetched whatever they could find to tie America up. He studied his lover with growing dread, noting that, as composed as he seemed on the outside, his vivid blue eyes held terror. Unable to stand it, England turned away, shivering.

Would he have been so brave, had he been the one bitten? He liked to think so.

England stared outside, at the deceptively calm night, trees swaying lightly in the breeze. He tried to ignore the noises behind him, as the other two nations bound America to the chair with whatever they had found. The only other sound was Canada's occasional sniffling.

"I think England is right," Russia said, voice subdued. "Viruses don't touch us. America will turn when all his people turn, not from this."

England swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. It wasn't a great comfort that Russia had said America _will_ turn.

"How's that?" Canada's trembling voice said.

There was a sound of shifting rope, rattling chain. They apparently had had luck with finding things. "Good. I'd have to really put effort into it to escape. So... stay close enough that you'll definitely notice if I start to try. But not too close. And take turns sleeping." A long pause. "England..."

With a sigh, England finally turned to face his possibly doomed lover. "I'm not saying goodbye."

"I wasn't gonna."

England reluctantly stepped closer, avoiding America's frightened eyes. He leaned in for a kiss, but America turned his face away. "No, England. Not if I'm infected."

Feeling helpless, England returned to the couch. He didn't look at anyone, not wanting to see Canada's misery or whatever the hell Russia was feeling. He curled up with his back to them, silently telling someone else to take the first watch.

He fully expected to be plagued by nightmares, assuming he managed to sleep at all. Mercifully, England slept without dreams.

* * *

England blearily opened his eyes, slowly coming to the realization that a hand on his shoulder was shaking him awake. Panic started to creep up on him before it settled into his brain that the shaking wasn't all that urgent. Nobody was telling him he needed to get the hell out of the house, _now_.

"Hmm?" He looked up into weary violet eyes. "Oh. My turn?"

Russia nodded. "Nothing has changed."

England let out a relieved sigh, sinking back into the couch. "That's something, anyway." After several hours, there would have been _some_ symptoms, right?

So England traded places with Russia, letting him try and fit his larger frame onto the couch. Canada still slept curled up in the recliner. And America remained tied to the chair, chin drooping against his chest as he slept. England couldn't help but creep closer, inspecting his lover for anything new. But no, Russia was right. The familiar spots of rotten skin were all that marred his features. His skin still held the same healthy glow. He wasn't sick yet. He sat down to wait, breaking his study of America's features only long enough to watch the rising sun paint the sky in vibrant colors.

The others gradually woke up as the morning wore on, America and Canada first and Russia around noon. Not much was said between them as they waited, everyone unwilling to get their hopes up or jinx things by talking about the lack of change. They fixed meager meals, pleased that America's appetite hadn't changed either, though he opted to go hungry, not willing to be untied or let anybody's fingers come near his mouth. His grumbling stomach made England smile on a few occasions.

And that night, they released America, hugging and kissing him in relief. They knew it was entirely possible he still carried the virus, that it effected their kind differently, that he could be spreading it to them. But by then they didn't care.

"Now what?" Canada said, clinging happily to his twin.

America smiled. The fear had finally faded from his eyes, soothing England's heart. "Back to the original plan. It's time to move on. I haven't heard a thing since last night."

Russia nodded. "Let's find a new city. Get some more ammo, kill some more things..."

England waited patiently for Canada to stop hogging America. "Sounds jolly good."


End file.
